


Dream a Little Dream (Of Us)

by Kyra_Bane



Series: Kinktober 2020 [The Old Guard] [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Bane/pseuds/Kyra_Bane
Summary: Sometimes dreams show us our deepest desires. Sometimes dreams show us the truth.Sometimes, they do both.Or, five times Joe dreamt of members of the Old Guard, and one time Nicky dreamt of him.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Kinktober 2020 [The Old Guard] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930153
Comments: 7
Kudos: 194





	Dream a Little Dream (Of Us)

**Author's Note:**

> kinktober prompt 2. wet dreams

_Andromache of Scythia_

Yusuf has been travelling with the Frank for almost a year.

In that time, they have formed a fragile truce, learnt enough of each other’s languages that they can communicate, and have managed not to kill each other for, now, a little over a month.

All in all, things are going better than they were when he woke up on the battlefield, a sword still half impaled in his chest, but there is a long way to go.

This constant living, it worries the Frank – Nicolò, he ground out one of those first few days; not that Yusuf ever uses his name – but that only proves to annoy Yusuf further because he does not wish to admit to his own doubts, does not wish to share any other quality with this man.

They are travelling still, crossing through grassland, and they have settled into a routine; despite Yusuf’s dislike of him, the Frank builds a fire each night and they lay out their bed rolls on opposite sides and, Yusuf has to admit, on the occasions they have been attacked, he has always been first to his feet, cutting down enemies before Yusuf even has his scimitar in a tight grip.

The Frank mutters something tonight, as he settles down to sleep. He never turns his back, so Yusuf rolls onto his, staring up at the canopy of stars above. It is not often that he falls into despair, now, but tonight he does: Will he have to travel with this ungrateful Frank forever? Will there be a day, someday, when the sight of him does not make Yusuf’s stomach twist unpleasantly, does not remind him of the stink of blood and bodies and a battle that cannot, will not, be justified?

Will they be the only two, at the end of time? The thought makes his chest ache. To live a life so closely tied to a person he can barely tolerate – maybe time will cool his temper, soothe some of the hurt and, maybe, one day he might feel forgiveness – but for now, he cannot.

He falls into a fitful sleep, the dream at once alien and all too familiar. He has had similar dreams this past year, where he has felt as though he has seen someone he should know. Yet he has never _quite_ seen them; they are always just out of reach.

Tonight, he finally does.

She is tall, the woman, with long hair that cascades down her back as she swings around, the axe in her hands taking down one man, then another. Blood splatters across her face and she never slows; she fights in a way that Yusuf has seen in very few men – and never in a woman.

The image changes and she is at a feast, laughing with the men, a woman kneeling by her side who looks up at her as though she hung the very stars themselves, and when there is a lull in the conversation, this dark-haired stranger kisses her admirer, to the appreciative laughter of the men.

One more change; she is riding, alone, but she meets another rider on an outcrop – another woman whose face Yusuf cannot quite make out, only the sight of her feels familiar to him, also. They speak a language Yusuf has never heard, in low, warm tones, and maybe he will not be alone at the end of the world, after all.

Yusuf startles awake to find the Frank already sitting up, stoking the dying embers of the fire. He has dark circles under his eyes, Yusuf notices, and he wonders why he did not notice before.

“Did you see her?” the Frank asks, in halting Arabic.

“Yes,” Yusuf answers, in the Frank’s language, because despite the fact that they have spent a year travelling through lands where the Frank should have had more practice, Yusuf clearly has more of a talent for it.

“What did you see?”

“She was fighting. Feasting. Meeting a friend.”

“Ah,” the Frank says. He looks sad.

No.

He looks as though he has seen something terrible.

“What did you see?” Yusuf asks and he is sitting up, now, leaning closer without meaning to.

“Her death,” the Frank says. “I dream of it every night.”

Yusuf does not know what to say to that. He knows the Frank is always awake before him, but if he dreams of that every time he closes his eyes, then he really must be getting precious little sleep.

Against all his wishes, the first seeds of sympathy begin to sprout.

“I am glad you do not,” the Frank says, almost a whisper, and Yusuf frowns.

“Sleep, Nicolò,” Yusuf replies. “I will still be here, when you wake.”

***

_Quynh_

It is not long after his first dream of the two women meeting that Yusuf dreams of the second woman properly. She is smaller than the first, built slighter, but he sees the way she moves, fast like a viper, and decides that he cannot wait to meet her.

His and Nicolò’s relationship has improved these last few months; Yusuf calls him by his name now, most of the time, and Nicolò seems more inclined to share information about himself.

It helps that he seems, at heart, to be inescapably _kind_ and small demonstrations of that gradually chip away at the cage Yusuf has built around his heart; he still does not feel as though he will offer Nicolò forgiveness – if it were even his to offer – but knowing Nicolò as he does now, he thinks he will not ask.

They fight before sleeping, most nights, training bouts and scuffles, because of course they _can_ die, but Yusuf would still rather avoid it, wherever possible. He spent his youth fighting with other boys, too, wrestling, and he understands what can happen when there are two bodies in close contact, regardless of _feelings,_ but the first time he pins Nicolò and feels him hard against his thigh, he is awash with a sudden jolt of want, and Nicolò scrambles away quickly and does not talk to him for two days.

So, most of the time it is combat training, with a bout of wrestling when Yusuf is feeling daring and there has been time enough in between for Nicolò to have forgotten about what inevitably happens. 

They still sleep across from each other, either side of the fire, and Yusuf faces Nicolò too, before he falls asleep.

The dream he tumbles into captures him immediately. He sees the first woman, the warrior with her axe, but she is not the focus. The other woman has her pushed back into their bed rolls – they are on the move, like he and Nicolò – and is kissing down her throat, over her breasts. Neither of them seems to be in a hurry, both in tune with one another; the warrior parts her legs and the woman smiles against her skin, buries her face there.

Yusuf wakes, breathing hard, straining his leggings, and Nicolò is staring across at him, his eyes dark and glittering in the night.

Yusuf is suddenly, acutely aware of what he could do. He could round the fire, crawl over Nicolò and he is sure Nicolò would give him anything he wanted. He could roll over and go back to sleep and they could both pretend this never happened. 

He lets out a shaky breath and smiles. It does not appear to dissuade Nicolò any.

“Did you dream of them?” Yusuf asks. 

Nicolò nods. “They are…” He trails off, shakes his head, sighs, and finally says, in the saddest voice Yusuf has ever heard, “They are in love.”

The hurt of it curls in behind Yusuf’s heart, in that small, special place he has had no reason to acknowledge – and still, consciously, does not.

“They are,” he says, blood cooling. “I hope we will have a chance to meet them soon.”

Nicolò nods, although he seems less enthusiastic. “As do I.”

***

_Lykon_

Yusuf’s dream of Lykon is, of course, very different to the ones he first had of Andromache and Quynh. 

It has taken them, in the end, a very long time to find each other. So long that, despite the dreams, Yusuf has all but given up.

He and Nicolò have become friends, _more_ than friends, although it is all still very new and he knows one misstep may just destroy the fragile love blossoming between them. He knows this even though Nicolò insists it is love, whispers the words against Yusuf’s skin over and over as he learns how to take him apart. 

Then they find Andromache, Quynh, and everything they know, about themselves and each other, is suddenly thrown into a very sharp contrast.

Andromache reveals the truth: they can die, and stay dead.

She says it when they are all drinking around the fire, a few weeks into their time together. Quynh has her head resting in Andromache’s lap; she has been no less affectionate just because they have two other people with them now, though Yusuf supposes that if he saw what she and Andromache were doing, she has certainly seen what he and Nicolò have been up to.

“Lykon and I were together for a couple of thousand years,” Andromache says and she takes a long pull of the jug before passing it to Quynh, who drinks while keeping one of her hands on Andromache’s thigh. “He went down in battle. Until then, I thought we would live forever.”

“He was injured?” Nicolò asks, leaning forwards, and there is something almost frantic in his gaze.

“Yes,” Quynh says because Andromache’s eyes are shining, though Yusuf doubts they will see her shed a tear. “He simply… stopped healing. Did not get up again.”

“So we do die, in the end,” Yusuf says. “There is an _end,_ after all.”

“You sound so excited by it,” Nicolò says, his expression drawn and Yusuf shakes his head. 

“Not at all, habibi,” he replies, because he may not be certain about the strength of their love but he knows it can survive this. “I simply am glad to know it, for sure.”

They turn in early that night, Andromache and Quynh on one side of the fire, Yusuf and Nicolò on the other. Quynh is tucked tight against Andromache, wrapped around her tightly, and Yusuf presses along Nicolò’s back, sighing only when Nicolò’s breathing evens out into sleep.

He follows not long after and, when his dream begins, he knows it is not real. He has had too many that _are,_ for that, and since, he has dreamt of Nicolò, of his life left behind, of current and past fears.

Tonight, he dreams of Lykon. 

He does not know the man’s face, of course, but he sees Andromache, and Quynh, and the man – the figment his mind has invented – fights with them, ever as fierce, ever as powerful, until, suddenly, he does not.

He crumples when the spear hits him, falls, and the others are screaming and Yusuf is scared, in the way a person only is when they are dreaming, because he wants to help but he _cannot–_

He wakes to the sound of Nicolò’s voice and buries his face in his love’s chest. Nicolò rubs his back, holds him tightly, and when Yusuf realises it was only a dream, he lifts his head. 

“I saw him,” he murmurs. “Did I wake the others?”

“No,” Nicolò says. “You saw who?”

“Lykon. Not Lykon, of course, but a man I believed to be. I saw him _die,_ Nicolò…”

He fears it because he saw not only Lykon, but Nicolò too, and he realises he cannot stand the thought of them being apart for even a second – at least, in terms of their death.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says and he kisses away Yusuf’s tears, brushes his lips over his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. “Yusuf, cuore mio, I am here. Wherever we go, we go together.”

“Promise me,” Yusuf says, because he needs the reassurance here, in the dark.

Nicolò, to his credit, does not hesitate. “I promise,” he says and Yusuf kisses him because he does truly love this man, enough to believe that he will do everything in his power to either cling to life until Yusuf can join him, or to follow on right after.

“I love you,” Yusuf says and Nicolò breathes a sigh against his skin.

“And I you.”

***

_Sébastien “Booker” Le Livre_

Yusuf has had many names, by now. He is currently going by Joseph, he and Nicolò – now _Nicholas_ – and Andromache – _Andrea_ – are in Europe and it has been several centuries since they lost Quynh.

Andromache is not over it – she will never be over it – but they have managed to coax her back into doing what good they can, what with the world still turning and wars raging everywhere. 

They are in the Austrian Empire, sharing one small room between the three of them, and the night that Sébastien dies, they all wake at once.

Nicolò is the first to get his wits about him, although Andromache looks, simply, sad.

“What did you see?” Nicolò asks.

“He appears older than me,” Yusuf says. He is already digging around in his things, trying to find a sketchbook. He has an image swimming in his mind; a strong jaw and sad eyes – he thinks the man is French, fighting in this bloody war he believes to be endless.

He will believe it even more, now.

“We should find him,” Nicolò says and Yusuf draws, coaxing details from Andromache she clearly does not want to give.

He knows why. The prospect of a new member to their unnatural club has them thinking of the member still missing, the one they cannot be certain is still alive.

Yusuf sucks in a breath and snaps the end of his pencil.

“What is it?” Andromache asks. Nicolò turns to face him.

“He will dream of us,” Yusuf says. “Do you believe he will dream of her?”

Andromache swallows, her lips trembling; they have seen her cry, now, and much more besides – she raged at them when they finally convinced her there was nothing more to be done. Yusuf still doubts he will ever set eyes on Quynh again.

“We must find him,” she says and Yusuf agrees.

Except, a few days later, he dreams of something new. A woman, blonde hair falling in soft curls around her face; children, who look upon their newest brother wish pure adoration.

“He has gone back to them,” he says into the crook of Nicolò’s neck one morning, and Nicolò hums in agreement. He left behind nothing, he has told Yusuf, when he headed out for the crusades. Yusuf had a wife but no children, and back then, it would have taken him months to return; and with all the doubt and fear he had around his new ability, it was not something he had even considered.

Sometimes, he does regret it. Sometimes, he thinks Nicolò had more at home than he lets on, but has chosen to forget about it to ease the pain.

“We must leave him be,” Yusuf says when they enter the Kingdom of France. “Speak to him, maybe, but then leave him to do as he chooses.”

Andromache is angry; she thinks this is her only chance to retrieve Quynh and Yusuf does not doubt he would react in much the same way, should he ever find himself in her position.

“When they discover what he is…”

“It is _his_ choice to make,” Nicolò replies, ever so softly. “He will have been dreaming of us and we should find him so that he knows he is not alone, but… Yusuf is right. If he wishes to have more time with his family, then who are we to take that from him.”

He does not say _Quynh has been down there for centuries, if she is still alive; she can wait a little longer,_ but they both know Andromache still hears it.

They meet Sébastien weeks later. They find out Quynh still lives. They leave him with his family.

When he eventually joins them, years later, Yusuf thinks he carries more pain than Yusuf has ever felt and Yusuf decides to do his best to do right by their newest brother.

***

_Nile_

“She needs us,” Nicky says, and Joe sees the moment Andy gives in.

“I’ll handle the retrieval.” 

It is better that way, Joe thinks. After everything that has just happened, he wants to keep Nicky close – and two of them would be spotted. Booker seems to almost argue with Andy, for a moment, but Joe thinks little of it. He is just scared, unsure; he has had his own dreams, of course, but has never been on _this_ side of them.

They make it to France and Joe dreams of her again, of Nile, sees flashes of her marine friends, of the man who sliced her throat. He is already fascinated by her, Nicky too, though Nicky does not speak of it.

“Do you think it is a good idea, Andy going to fetch her?” Booker asks when they reach the safe house. 

Nicky shrugs, goes off to drop their stuff in the only bedroom. 

“Why would it not be?” Joe asks.

Booker shrugs. “She’s so young,” he says. “So beautiful. Do we really need to drag her in _now?”_

Joe is half-tempted to tease Booker a little, because he has never expressed that he believes anyone beautiful – not ever – but he lets the desire fade. 

“Things are different now, Book,” Joe replies quietly. “She is in the military. We might be dragging her into our danger, but she is in danger there, too – people saw her die, and now she is fine. It only takes one more mishap to reveal her true nature, and then she will have no one who can keep her safe.”

Booker hums. He will not meet Joe’s eyes; he looks terribly sad.

“I hope you are right,” he says and Joe laughs, claps him on the shoulder.

“We will all be fine, Book. Come, let us get things ready here. The game is on tonight, you know.”

Booker rolls his eyes at that. “Yeah, yeah,” he says and his amusement washes away almost all the melancholy in his eyes. “I know.”

***

_Yusuf “Joe” ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib_

Nicky, sometimes, is sad he never had a chance to meet Joe through his dreams. 

He wonders what that would have been like, if another had killed him on the battlefield, and Nicky had spent the years getting to know him through flashes of images, of feelings.

Still, sometimes he dreams of Joe anyway.

Like tonight. They have their own room, for once, Andy and Nile bunked up in the other, and when Nicky closes his eyes, he falls into the dream headfirst.

It’s Joe, everywhere, his hair cropped shorter like it was once in Damascus, and he bites his way down Nicky’s chest, stopping every so often to throw him a bright grin. It is one of those dreams that Nicky cannot control; Joe has moved, suddenly, to take Nicky’s cock in his mouth, fingers slick and teasing at his rim; then his fingers are sliding deep and there is no need for adjustment, no discomfort, because Nicky is ready for him, skin hot and prickling and he _needs him…_

He wakes with a start, a moan caught in the back of his throat. He feels hot all over, his cock tenting his boxers and he eyes the clock with no little distaste.

He fell asleep two hours ago, by the looks of things, which means his idea of waking Joe is terribly inconsiderate.

One touch will probably be enough to get him off, though leaving the bed might wake Joe as well, and Nicky would never lie to him about this – so then Joe would ask why Nicky had not woken him and Nicky does not want to get into their recurring low-stakes argument that Joe is not getting as much sleep as he should at the moment, what with all their worry about Andy and Nile and Booker…

He turns his face into the pillow and bites down – and promptly starts when a hand, _not_ his hand, slides below the waistband of his boxers.

Joe scrapes his teeth over the back of Nicky’s neck, takes him in a sure, familiar grip, and Nicky is so keyed up that it only takes a handful of strokes before he comes, gasping into the darkness around them.

Joe chuckles when he’s done, moving his hand to grip Nicky’s hip as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the back of his neck.

“When did you wake, hayati?” Nicky grumbles.

He feels Joe’s smile against his skin; Joe rolls his hips and he feels his hardness, too.

“Hmm, I think some time in the middle of your dream,” he murmurs. “I thought you might spend before waking, in truth.”

Nicky wriggles back against him and Joe starts to roll his hips in a slow, steady rhythm. There’s a little more moving around as they both push down their underwear and then Nicky lifts his leg, Joe’s cock sliding between his thighs.

It’s slick and messy and Nicky reaches back to grab Joe’s hip even as Joe wraps an arm around Nicky’s chest, tight as a band.

“I dreamt of you,” Nicky says. “Of Damascus, when you had me on that bed for a day, made me come over and over again just on your fingers…”

Joe moans against his skin, gives him a full-body shudder, but he’s still moving. Nicky touches the head of his cock, when it pushes between his thighs and Joe moans again.

“We could try that again, sometime,” Nicky says. “Whenever we go back to Malta. Except, I want to do it to you, this time.”

Joe chuckles. He’s breathing hard and Nicky knows, from that alone, that he is close.

“You have far more patience than me, my love,” Joe says. His voice comes out strangled. He’s beginning to lose his rhythm, chasing his orgasm, and Nicky turns the idea over in his mind.

“I bet I could keep you on the edge for hours,” he says, lets his accent thicken a little because he knows Joe likes it. Sure enough, he moans. “Either that or really test our limits – I bet I could make you come ten times or more.”

_“Nicky,”_ Joe says and Nicky never tires of hearing his name – any of his names – being said that way.

“Are you close?” Nicky asks, even though he knows. “Do you enjoy it, using me like this? Maybe we could try this one day – you could tie me up and use me however you liked and–”

Joe moans and holds Nicky tight as he comes, burying his face in the back of Nicky’s neck. They remain that way for a while, until they’re breathing in sync again. 

Nicky cleans the mess from his thighs with his boxers and then turns, tangling his legs with Joe’s. 

“Love you, babe,” Joe murmurs, sleepy and sated and _happy._ Nothing else can reach either of them in this moment and Nicky kisses him softly.

“Love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> not quite a wet dream but still... the gist of it was there! kudos/comments loved as ever!! 🥰


End file.
